


Hands

by Monker



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Adorable, Blood, Coulson/May, F/M, Hand & Finger Kink, Holding Hands, Kissing, Love, May/Coulson - Freeform, Mayson - Freeform, Minor Injuries, Philinda - Freeform, Post Mission, Pre-Series, Romance, Sexy Phil, Tenderness, hand kissing, playing nurse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 05:48:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monker/pseuds/Monker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why does Coulson always tuck his hands under his arms when waiting for an explosive to go off? Well, this is why. Pre-show Philinda oneshot. Happy reading!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by Coulson's traditional hands-under-armpits stance whenever waiting for something to blow up behind him. I wondered why he always stood like that and figured there must be a story behind it. Well, turns out there was, and this it that story. 
> 
> It takes place several years before the show, even before the first Ironman. Coulson and May are both lower-ranking agents at the tail-end of a successful mission. I hope you enjoy! Please leave a comment at the end, if you'd like. I always appreciate any feedback you can give me.
> 
> Deep breath in...deep breath out...here we go!

"Hold still," she said, grabbing him by the wrist and yanking his hand back underneath the ray of the small light. They had made it out with the extraction team and were now tucked away in a secret, underground rendezvous location, awaiting their final transportation back to SHIELD headquarters and, subsequently, SHIELD's professional medical staff. In the meantime, May was having to make due with a weak table lamp and a first-aid kit she had found after a half-hour's search.

Coulson grimaced as he watched her meticulous movements. The shard of metal was deeply imbedded in the pad of his hand, and it didn't seem to want to come out. 

May worked the shard back and forth in the wound, trying to get it to come lose. Phil inhaled sharply through his teeth and she halted her movements, glancing up at him apologetically. "Sorry," she said.

Coulson just scowled and shook his head, "It's fine."

It took a few more tries, but the piece of metal eventually came free, sliding from the wound as a fresh stream of blood accompanied it swiftly. Without a word, May grabbed the nearby rag and shoved it into Coulson's hand, clenching it with her own.

He tried to suppress the groan and mostly succeeded. He didn't know which hurt worse, having May dig around in his hand to get the thing loose, or having her clamp down onto his wound mercilessly to curb the bleeding. Either way, it was painful, and he hoped she didn't notice the way he writhed around a little on the stool.

"So, what happened anyway?" she asked, trying to distract him from the pain. She hadn't even noticed he had been wounded until their team was being evacuated. The blood had been dripping down the length of his forearm and some of it smeared onto the cuff of her uniform as she helped to hoist him into the truck. Up until that moment, she had thought it had been a clean mission.

"I think it's part of the handle from the door," he answered, his voice noticeably tense. "I guess I didn't stand far enough back from the lock explosive."

"So, it was like this through the whole data retrieval and everything?" May asked, wondering how she hadn't noticed.

Phil nodded, still grimacing and looking down at the rag, watching as the soft cream color of the cloth was slowly infiltrated by a sharp, fiery red.

"Keep the pressure," she ordered as she removed her had. Coulson obediently replaced her hand with his own and continued to hold the rag roughly against the wound. 

May adjusted the lamp so that it was focused more on the wound. "Okay, let me look," she said, nudging Coulson to lift the rag. She too grimaced when she saw the cut. "It's deep," she assessed. "Looks like you'll probably need some stitches."

"Let's just patch it up. Once evac gets here, it will only be a few hours before we're back at base. I can get it handled there," Coulson said.

May just nodded and moved back to the first-aid kit. "It needs to be cleaned." The words were mild enough, but Coulson still inwardly cringed when he saw the small, brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide be removed from the kit. 

May took the rag from Coulson and laid it on the table, positioning his hand over it. "Ready?" she asked, unscrewing the bottle and moving it over the wound.

Coulson just gave a tight nod and she poured the chemical onto the cut. He hissed through his teeth as he watched the liquid foam and sizzle in his wound. He was certain now that the cut was indeed very deep. This wasn't the first cut he had ever doctored, and hydrogen peroxide didn't usually burn that intensely. He wouldn't be surprised if the metal shard had actually made it all the way to the bone. 

May looked up at him sympathetically. She didn't like hurting him. Using the cleanest parts of the rag, she dried off around the wound, but let the chemical keep to its cleaning on the cut itself. Then she retrieved the sanitary cotton swabs and packed them onto the wound, wrapping them in place with the medical gauze from the kit. 

Coulson watched her hands intently. He found them mesmerizing for some reason and he couldn't look away. They were lovely and warm. The nails were long and spotless. You would never know she had just come off of a filthy mission. Looking at the scrapes and dirt smudges on his own hands, he wondered how hers managed to stay so pristine. Maybe it was just another one of the numerous mysteries surrounding Melinda May. He looked up at her face and watched the intense concentration there. Her brow furrowed as her eyes looked intensely at the wound, her hair slightly matted with a mix of dirt and perspiration. Despite his discomfort, Phil let himself smile softly and rest in the tender administrations of her delicate fingers. 

"There," she said, once she was all through.

When she looked up at him again, he was smiling at her sweetly. "Thanks," he said.

"Don't mention it," she replied, looking away from that soft smile. She started to pull away, but Phil grasped her hand in his own. Startled, she looked back at him, but his gaze was otherwise occupied.

Phil wordlessly brought his other hand up to join the first and he then proceeded to explore the palm and back of her hand with his own. He drew his fingers over the smooth skin and watched as the tendons in her hand flexed beneath his touch. He stroked the back of her hand with the palm of his, reveling in the heat and softness of her skin against him. Slowly, methodically, his rough fingers traversed every inch of her hand, covering the light, discrete hairs--he never would have even known they were there if he had not spent this time in quiet devotion to discovering them--and slipping between the slits of her fingers. He touched everything, as if he wanted to scan that image into his memory, in a place where it would never be lost. 

He swept his thumb from the wrinkles of her knuckles to the base of her wrist, noticing as a multitude of goose bumps spread up the skin of her arm from his light caress. He smiled softly to himself, feeling almost proud for some reason. He found he wanted to chase those goose bumps to wherever they would take him. But he refrained. 

Slowly and quietly, Phil brought the back of Melinda's hand up to his mouth, and placed a small kiss between her thumb and index. It was a slow kiss. It was a patient kiss. It was a cherished kiss and he did not hurry to pull away; but when he finally did, he held the hand a few inches away from his face and continued to stare at it. He tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, and then tilted it a moment later to the other side, deciding where the next kiss should go. 

Slowly closing in again, he placed the second tender kiss between the lower two knuckles of her ring finger, continuing to let his lips linger there. Once he was satisfied with the kiss, Phil pulled away again. Turning her hand over in his, he pulled her fingers gently back, stretching her palm taut so that it was fully exposed to him. Leaning down, he let his mouth linger open as the kiss was made, slowly dragging his lips closed over the surface of her palm. He felt the shiver start all the way in her shoulders and shoot down her arm as he opened and closed again, executing a quiet smacking noise barely heard in the noiseless corner of the dark tunnel.

Reluctantly, he pulled his head away and lowered her hand down to the table. He continued to hold it softly in his own while he worked up the courage to look at her. He hardly knew what had overtaken him just then, but it was perfectly possible that he had vaulted over certain boundaries and that she would be upset with him. Swallowing in his, now very dry, throat, he forced his eyes to rise and meet with hers.

But she was almost in a trance, her eyes locked on Phil's lips, her own mouth hanging open slightly. She watched as those lips twisted up into a subtle smirk, and it was only then that she managed to pull away and meet his gaze.

He cocked an eyebrow at her and gave a tiny shrug of his shoulders. "Sorry," he said sheepishly.

She shook her head before the words could form. "Never," she said. It was not what she thought she was going to say, and hearing herself say it now felt really strange. But her command of English was suddenly stumbling over itself, and she couldn't manage to correct the misspoken response.

Out of the corner of his eye, Phil saw another agent approaching and without looking, he already knew who it was. He subtly released May's hand and pulled his own back to his side of the small table. 

"You get your hand all patched up, agent?" Agent Bridge asked, his tall and imposing presence casting a shadow over the already dark tunnel floor.

Phil nodded, "Yes, sir. Good as new." He held up the bandaged hand and opened and closed the fingers slightly. He managed not to grimace when he was reminded of the fact that the wound actually hurt still (somehow, it had managed to slip his mind for a time). 

Agent Bridge nodded curtly at the younger agent. "Try not to be so careless in the future."

Phil returned the nod respectfully, "I will, sir." 

"Get your things together, both of you. Evac's just pulled up," Agent Bridge ordered before turning and moving down the long tunnel.

After a few seconds, Coulson returned his attention to the woman across the table. He watched as she busily went about cleaning up the table and putting the little brown bottle back in the kit. 

"Next time, you should put your hands in your pockets or something," she said without looking up.

Phil snorted a quiet laugh. "No kidding," he said. He definitely wasn't going to make that mistake again. Although, if Agent May was going to be his healer again, it wasn't a scenario he wanted to entirely rule out. Not just yet. 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> I am more of an MCU fan and am regrettably not as well-versed in the comic books as I feel I ought to be. I know vaguely that Agent G. W. Bridge is a real character from the comic books, but I admittedly know nothing else about him. So, to anyone who may have recognized him, I apologize if he appears out of context or character in this story. I just needed a superior officer for young Coulson and May, and didn't want to use someone too overly familiar, so I used Bridge.


End file.
